Syson, silenced, looked at the other man quizzically, half pitying. Then he turned. “Good day,” he said, and was gone. Now, everything irritated him: the two sallows, one all gold and perfume and murmur, one silver-green and bristly, reminded him, that here he had taught her about pollination. What a fool he was! What god-forsaken folly it all was! “Ah well,” he said to himself; “the poor devil seems to have a grudge against me. I’ll do my best for him.” He grinned to himself, in a very bad temper. II The farm was less than a hundred yards from the wood’s edge. The wall of trees formed the fourth side to the open quadrangle. The house faced the wood. With tangled emotions, Syson noted the plum blossom falling on the profuse, coloured primroses, which he himself had brought here and set. How they had increased! There were thick tufts of scarlet, and pink, and pale purple primroses under the plum trees. He saw somebody glance at him through the kitchen window, heard men’s voices. The door opened suddenly: very womanly she had grown! He felt himself going pale. “You?—Addy!” she exclaimed, and stood motionless. “Who?” called the farmer’s voice. Men’s low voices answered. Those low voices, curious and almost jeering, roused the tormented spirit in the visitor. Smiling brilliantly at her, he waited. “Myself—why not?” he said. The flush burned very deep on her cheek and throat. “We are just finishing dinner,” she said. “Then I will stay outside.” He made a motion to show that he would sit on the red earthenware pipkin that stood near the door among the daffodils, and contained the drinking water. “Oh no, come in,” she said hurriedly. He followed her. In the doorway, he glanced swiftly over the family, and bowed. Everyone was confused. The farmer, his wife, and the four sons sat at the coarsely laid dinner-table, the men with arms bare to the elbows. “I am sorry I come at lunch-time,” said Syson. “Hello, Addy!” said the farmer, assuming the old form of address, but his tone cold. “How are you?” And he shook hands. “Shall you have a bit?” he invited the young visitor, but taking for granted the offer would be refused. He assumed that Syson was become too refined to eat so roughly. The young man winced at the imputation. “Have you had any dinner?” asked the daughter. “No,” replied Syson. “It is too early. I shall be back at half-past one.” “You call it lunch, don’t you?” asked the eldest son, almost ironical. He had once been an intimate friend of this young man. “We’ll give Addy something when we’ve finished,” said the mother, an invalid, deprecating. “No—don’t trouble. I don’t want to give you any trouble,” said Syson. “You could allus live on fresh air an’ scenery,” laughed the youngest son, a lad of nineteen.